


Shallow

by MyrandaRoyce



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:21:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrandaRoyce/pseuds/MyrandaRoyce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood has always followed her. From the blood on her knee to the blood under her nails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shallow

 

**One**

You are six years old.

It’s a short ride to the lake. The world is all dead grass and water. Your father jumps in the lake first. You hesitate for a moment, just a moment,  then follow. It’s not colder than you can handle, you were made for cold. You allow yourself to sink to the bottom. When you kick up your foot brushes something sharp. 

_No. No No._

Your father drags you up. Your foot is screaming in pain, covered in blood.

_Hush now. You’re going to be all right. Do you trust me?_

_Yes, Daddy._

Years later you all laugh at this story. _Remember the time Abigail almost drowned in the shallow part of the lake?_

**Two**

You like the clothes Doctor Bloom bought you. Elegant. Grown up.

You always felt childish in the pastel cardigans and slogan t-shirts you bought during the weekends wasted in the Mall of America. Wearing tennis shoes and white socks.

Doctor Bloom wears black pumps. They announce her presence. You wish you could hold a room like that. 

**Three**

You are nine years old.

You are sitting on a bench in the school yard with your Harry Potter book. The air is crisp. The leaves on the tress are changing. A red leaf falls and lands on you. You smile. It will make a good book mark.

A shadow looms over you. _Jack said he would give me five dollars if I kiss you._ The shadow is Randolf Johnson. He sits behind you in class. 

_Go away_ , you say. He kisses you anyway. When he breaks away you swing your book across his face. He hits back.

When the teachers pull  you off him they send you to the bathroom to clean up. Blood runs along your lip. You smile at the sight. It’s the same red as you mother’s lipstick.

You feel grown up.

**Four**

When Hannibal invites you to his home you’re glad to be wearing Doctor Bloom’s clothes. They make you feel worthy of his company.

His smile has a way of making you feel comfortable.

When he runs his hand through your hair you forget he helped you hide the body.

_You’re meant for great things, Abigail_ , he says.

**Five**

You are twelve years old.

You’re being childish. No need to cry you only skinned your knee. You cry anyway.

_What happened, honey_ , your father asks. You show him your bloody knee. He kisses it. _All better._ There’s blood on his lips. He runs his hand through your hair. _You’re meant for great things,_ _Abigail._

_You’re my father,_ you say, _it’s your job to say that._

_I’m not lying. Would you like to go hunting with me._

_Do I have to?_

**Six** _  
_

_Abigail, do you realize that you refer to yourself in the second person?_

_No, Doctor._

_Well, think about that before our next session._

_Okay._

**Seven**

You are seventeen years old.

_God, Mom. It’s just a dress._ It’s a Saturday night. Your mother hunches over her recipe book in the kitchen.

_I’m tried of having this conversation, Abigail._

_I bought it with my own money._ It is a beautiful dress. Shiny red. Sleeveless. It offers the slightest hint of cleavage. 

_It makes you look like a whore._

_I’m almost eighteen._

_My house my rules._

You storm to your room. You scream. You cry.

You don’t go to homecoming.

**Eight**

_What is that Abigail?_

_A shoe box, Hannibal._

You don’t mention that you snuck out of the hospital again. Or that you stole money from one of the nurses.

Hannibal pulls out a pair of black pumps from the box. _I’ve never seen you wear these._

_I haven’t worn them at all yet._

_Why don’t you try them on now?_ He places the shoes on the floor

You walk across the room until you reach them. He holds out his arm to support you as you step into them.  Without thinking you hold your arms out like an airplane to keep from falling. Hannibal grabs you by the hips.

When he leans down and kisses you panic gathers in your chest. You strike him across the face, drawing blood from his cheek. You fall. He catches you. He doesn’t strike back.

_Apologies, Abigail_ , he mutters. He leaves.

You covet his blood beneath your nails.

**Nine**

You are eighteen years old.

Killing is easy. It’s always been easy. A gun or knife makes no difference. Intentional or accidental. Your targets have never given up much of a fight. This isn’t a sport. It’s survival. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s how you live with yourself.

_This isn’t self defense, Abigail._

_You didn’t bury him deep enough, Hannibal._

Living after killing is the hard part. _  
_

**Ten**

You’re good at climbing walls.

_Come down from there, Abigail._ This is becoming routine. 

His face is slightly red where you hit him. _I’m sorry._ You kiss his cheek. _All better?_

_All better._


End file.
